He put the advert in the spring edition of the estate magazine. Kind heart for sale, middle-aged, male, one previous owner. Offers?
The day the mag went through people’s letter boxes the new woman in the flat above knocked.
‘I’m Liz. Just introducing myself.’
‘Jed.’
‘Some nice people round here.’
‘Some.’
‘I mean look at this in the community circular. He sounds a proper decent sort.’
‘You think?’
‘I might answer that meself!’ She laughed, a nice laugh, like a tickle.
‘Save yourself the pen and paper, Liz.’
‘Oh? Do you know him? Is the bloke no good?’
He told her.
/
Liz and Jed, hand in hand, picked over the pebbles to the sand fringing the wide bay which simmered in the summer sun.
‘How do you think we’re doing?’ she asked.
‘Doing?’
‘Us. Doing.’
‘Alright.’
‘You really are the most understated guy. But then I like a quiet fellow.’
‘My wife said I was too quiet.’
‘She’s wrong!’ she insisted, a little too loudly. ‘And, look… if you ever want to tell me more about the crash, I’m a good listener.’
He shook his head.
‘When you’re ready, I mean.’
He grimaced, as though she’d punched him.
‘If you’re ever ready, you know.’
His expression became fearful.
Talking with him about feelings was like walking on the pebbles beneath her feet. Had his ex had similarly frustrating conversations with him?
/
She swept up the autumn leaves from the front of the drive. Dead. Same as Jed? Sex with him was OK but he never kissed her before, after, or during it. It was if he were anaesthetised. He told her, once only, details of the school bus accident. Three children had been killed, one being his sister, to whose limp hand he’d clung till they cut out the survivors. Blood was trickling down his head, into his eyes, so he couldn’t see his leg. Nor could he feel it: it was broken. He remembered a claustrophobic feeling, as if he were buried alive. His parents had never stopped grieving for their daughter and passed the infection onto him. He’d become withdrawn, reticent. ‘They treated your leg but not your trauma,’ she’d said last night. ‘You need therapy, Jed.’ He’d not replied. Did he have survivor’s guilt too?
She tipped the leaves into the recycling bag. When would he kiss her?
/
Snow was falling on an unusually cold December day. The estate was white, asleep under its shroud. Liz had called it off. ‘You’ve got to get off that bus, Jed. You’re trapped on it. I can’t help you, see. I just can’t.’ He’d be alone this Christmas. For the best really. Nothing lasted, did it?
He stood outside the flat. Snowflakes settled on his head, melted, ran down his cheeks. When the bus had skidded on the ice and turned over, he’d had bodies on top of him. He’d never been as close to anybody since. He went in, closed the door, shook the snow off.
He put the advert in the spring edition of the estate magazine. Kind heart for sale, middle-aged, male, one previous owner. Offers?
The day the mag went through people’s letter boxes the new woman in the flat above knocked.
‘I’m Liz. Just introducing myself.’
‘Jed.’
‘Some nice people round here.’
‘Some.’
‘I mean look at this in the community circular. He sounds a proper decent sort.’
‘You think?’
‘I might answer that meself!’ She laughed, a nice laugh, like a tickle.
‘Save yourself the pen and paper, Liz.’
‘Oh? Do you know him? Is the bloke no good?’
He told her.
/
Liz and Jed, hand in hand, picked over the pebbles to the sand fringing the wide bay which simmered in the summer sun.
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